THE CONSUMPTIVE GIRL.
FROM A PICTURE.
Thou may'st not raise her from that couch, kind nurse,
To bind those clustering tresses, or to press
The accustomed cordial. Thou no more shalt feel
Her slight arms twining faintly round thy neck
To prop her weakness. That low, whispered tone
No more can thank thee, but the earnest eye
Speaks with its tender glance of all thy care,
By night and day. Henceforth thy mournful task
Is brief: to wipe the cold and starting dew
From that pure brow, to touch the parching lip
With the cool water-drop—and guide the breeze
That fragrant through her flowers comes travelling on,
Freshly to lift the poor heart's broken valve,
Which gasping waits its doom.
Mother! thy lot
Hath been a holy one; upon thy breast
To cherish that fair bud, to share its bloom,
Refresh its languor with the rain of Heaven,
And give it back to God. The hour is come.
Thy sleepless night-watch o'er her infancy
Bore its own payment. Thou hast never known
For her, thy child, burden, or toil, or pang,
But what the full fount of maternal love
Did wash away, leaving those diamond sands
Which memory from her precious casket strews.
